Starry starry night

Spending time with real people again is like waking up from a dream. Ever since S left a month ago I've been alone with my imagination and the smell of pastel colored spring flowers on the bedroom window ledges. It's not necessarily a good thing. With Chloe here I have someone to talk to, to model dresses for and to spend late nights on the balcony with, breathing in the damp Atlantic air to the sounds of a city that never sleeps.

Mother has gone back to Los Angeles "for a week or so", it usually means a month. Chloe and I spent the weekend on bars all over town, dressed up in black and lace and with seductive burgundy red lips saying it's okay to buy us drinks. It's almost too easy.

And just as we were about to go back home, somewhere below tall buildings with yellow cabs and ambulances rushing past us on Broadway, it hit me like a sledgehammer: the memory of how the sky would look during clear nights in the garden of our summer house. The memory of a million glittering stars, and my father calmly pointing out the various constellations as if on a map on the kitchen table. "We'll go there some day" he said and I trusted him. All I see on this light polluted city sky is clouds and airplanes, my feet are steadily on the ground in lustrous high heels. It's another sort of dream and I'll never be able to fly.